Mr Darcy Returns
by S. Faith
Summary: Bridget had inexplicably gone to Darcy's time, and now he returns the favour.
1. Chapter 1

**Mr Darcy Returns**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 18,600 (in four chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)  
Summary: Bridget had inexplicably gone to Darcy's time, and now he returns the favour.  
Disclaimer: What's Jane's is Jane's; what's Helen's is Helen's and possibly also Jane's; the very small remainder is mine.  
Notes: The follow up to _Mr Darcy's Bed_ (Feb. 2013), which you can read on AO3, Fanfiction dot net, or on Still Waters Run Deep (an independent site where I've kept fiction). Started this almost immediately, but then got involved in other works. Takes place approximately 7 months after the events of that story. You could probably read this one without having read the first, but some things might not make as much sense.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The cafetière bubbled and burbled with the sound and smell of freshly brewing coffee, and as this elixir of life distilled into the carafe, a small smile played across Bridget's lips as she stood before it. As often as they had been intimate since they had begun their relationship, there were those special times when it seemed they were discovering anew all there was to know about one another. The night before had been one of those nights of exploration; every moment had been sensual bliss.

She sighed, watched the last of the drips into the glass carafe… and then heard a shout and a scramble of footsteps into the kitchen of her flat.

"Bridget, what in the name of arse."

It was Mark, her boyfriend— _fiancé_ , she mentally corrected—with whom she had spent said night of earthly delights. He looked as if he had seen a ghost: pale skin, stricken expression, and so shocked he'd come into the kitchen stark naked with only his crumpled robe in the clutch of one hand. Naturally, she was immediately concerned. "Mark, what is it?"

"Did the lot of us do something last night that I am blocking from memory?"

"The lot of us?"

He looked at her as if she were mad, spoke slowly to explain while pointing vehemently in the general direction of the bedroom: "There is another man in your bed. Our bed. The bed usually reserved for you and me. Two of us."

She laughed. "What are you talking about?"

It was then she heard another set of footsteps approaching the kitchen. She froze. And then she saw him.

She had to blink a few times to ensure she wasn't hallucinating, for before her eyes was as close to a carbon copy of her fiancé as she'd ever seen. He too was stark naked, though he had the sense to have pulled a sheet from the bed to cover himself. He also looked furious—and then he visibly recognised Bridget.

"Where the devil am I, and why are _you_ here, Miss Jones?"

There was a time and a place to ponder the delightful existence of not one but two naked Darcys in her kitchen, but knew that this was neither; she shook her head and struggled to keep her eyes focused on his lovely brown ones. "This is my flat in Borough Market," she said, "and why you're here is as much a mystery to me as it is to you."

At that moment, Mark seemed to snap out of his fugue, turned away from the pair of them, and rapidly slipped into the robe he was holding, tying it securely in the front. Bridget half-expected him to ask the newcomer who he was, but clearly Mark had his answer in the man's resemblance to himself. "So it was all true then," Mark said, though he looked like he was fighting off an oncoming headache: fingertips to the corners of his eyes as he squeezed the lids shut.

"Must have been," she said, though secretly she had always known it had been. She turned to—well, they were both Darcy, but for her sanity she decided to think of the time-traveller as 'Darcy' and her fiancé as 'Mark'—Darcy and asked, "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Oh God," groaned Mark.

Darcy's brows lifted ever so slightly. "You… have coffee? Here?"

"Of course."

Darcy looked thoroughly sceptical, but agreed to have a cup. He glanced around the kitchen and the flat in general, the lot of which was fairly untidy, his features stamped with unmistakeable disapproval. "I always considered coffee a bit of an extravagance," he said. "One of the few items upon which is imposed a luxury tax."

She laughed. "And us with a Pret or a Costa on nearly every corner."

"Bridget!" Mark said in a sharp, raised tone, his temper veritably exploding from built-up pressure. "What is hell is going on here?"

"I know as much as you do, Mark," she said. "Do you think you could watch your language in front of your grandfather…" She paused to calculate, then thought better of trying. "…times ten?"

The men took a seat at the table as she poured coffee, and tried not to feel like some sort of domestic throwback by telling herself she would have happily got Mark his coffee anyway, and Darcy… well, he was out of his element altogether.

The Regency gentleman seemed to approve of the coffee; he looked stunned when offered sugar and milk, and gaped unabashedly at the refrigerator as if it were a miracle, which in a way, it was. She warmed up an extra pastry, too; she wondered what he thought of the miracle box that made things warm.

"Quite excellent," Darcy said; though no bigger or taller than Mark, he seemed too large, too awkward, for her kitchen table. "So I am to understand congratulations are in order, and you have wed?" he asked, an undeniable sadness in his tone as he glanced to Mark. The sadness, the glance, did not go unnoticed by Mark.

"Oh, we haven't yet," she said. "Still planning."

Darcy could not have looked more appalled.

Before he had a chance to voice an opinion on the matter, Bridget anticipated his response and said, "Things are different here. _Now_."

"Never would I have imagined quite so different," Darcy said imperiously, then turned a dangerous glare upon his progeny. "What mental deficiency has caused you not to have formalised your bond in holy matrimony with this lady?"

Mark looked torn between wanting to be deferential to a guest (and a famous ancestor) and wanting to punch him in the face. "We are engaged," he said stiffly.

"Yet sharing a bed already," Darcy retorted with scorn.

"Gentlemen," said Bridget lest an actual fistfight break out. "As I said, things are different. We are as good as married, anyway." She winked to Mark. "Let's have our breakfast, and you, sir, we will dig up something for you to wear."

One of Darcy's brows arched upwards in that timeless expression of doubt and disbelief. He looked at Mark's attire sceptically. "Please tell me there is more to your… _fashion_ than this."

This made Bridget laugh out loud. "We may have radically different tastes than from your time, but we don't generally wear dressing gowns as casual wear."

Mark stifled a chuckle. "I seem to recall—"

"Not a word," scolded Bridget. "Eat."

It was certainly strange to have two men at the table who were practically mirror images of one another. She felt as if she were seeing double. They'd had the decency, at least, to stop bickering at the table. After eating, Mark dressed into the clean change of clothes he had brought, then went for the backup, emergency clean clothes for his doppelganger to put on. As Mark held them out for Darcy, Darcy took them, looking utterly befuddled.

"Unfortunately," said Mark, "you will not find a valet here."

Bridget offered, "The clothing should be fairly self-evident. I mean, the boxers, these things—" She pointed to the pants. "—they go on under the trousers and the opening goes in the front—"

Mark interrupted, pointing towards the loo door. "You can go in there to dress."

After the door closed behind him, Mark let out a long exhale. Bridget furrowed her brow. "What is the matter with you?"

"My fiancée's greatest fantasy just came to life in her bed," he said. "Wouldn't you be a bit disturbed in my place?"

"I doubt we would be engaged if he was your greatest—"

"Bridget," he said crossly, "you know what I mean."

She sighed. "It sounds like you somehow think I willed him into being, or something. That's absurd."

He ran his hand down over his face in exasperation. "I know."

"So what do we do?" she asked.

Mark said decisively, "We bring him to my house. That way, if anyone sees him, they think it's me, or a relative. Plus, I would prefer not to leave him here with you."

Now she frowned. "Do you not trust me?" she asked, pushing the thoughts of the last interaction she'd had with Darcy—in his bed—out of her mind. "And if you say, 'Don't be ridiculous'—"

Mark only pursed his lips, tightened his jaw.

…

The mysterious little room to which he was shown was insufferably small; Darcy barely felt he could comfortably move. He was less perplexed by the clothing than he had initially expected, which was a relief, but he urgently needed to urinate and had seen no sign of a chamber pot anywhere, just odd porcelain statuary. On the floor of the room, he saw curious articles of what he suspected was clothing, though the tiny amount of fabric argued against that.

The clothing did indeed seem straightforward to don; taking his cues from how this Darcy progeny had appeared, he felt confident that he had put it on the correct order and in the correct way. The fabric was very smooth and light; he reasoned that the clothing must have been very expensive.

The strange clothing, the odd room and situation helped to buffet the blow of seeing her again; he had never expected such a possibility to occur. When she'd disappeared, it had deeply affected him; seeing her again, dressed in a gown that revealed more skin than would have ever been considered decent even within the home in his own time, affected him even more.

As he emerged from the tiny room, he saw the two of them conferring together. He cleared his throat, then said as they looked up to him, "Pardon me—might there be a chamber pot available?"

Miss Jones smiled. "Here, let me show you." She came towards him, passing by him, then into the tiny room. "We call this the loo," she said. "Here's the sink, with water for washing your face and cleaning your teeth." She turned the taps on, amazing him. "And that…" She pointed to the giant porcelain bowl. "That is where you… relieve yourself. After you lift the lid, obviously; into the water."

His brows rose.

"And when you're done you push down on this thing here. To flush."

"Incredible," he said breathlessly.

"Yes… I suppose it is." Miss Jones grinned. "I'll, er, leave you to it."

Miss Jones backed up in order to back out of the room.

"Miss Jones?" he asked. "How exactly do I… er. Must I undress again?"

She smiled, turning a fetching shade of pink. "No. The front of the trousers have that… oh, you worked out the zip." He nodded. "Well, you need only undo the zip then, er, utilise the opening on the front of the underclothes. No need to get undressed. Well. I'd better go." She retreated, closing the door behind herself.

He did as she suggested—it seemed a bit odd to sully clean water in such a way—and after he finished he composed his clothing again, closed the lid then depressed the handle as she had instructed. When it finished, out of curiosity he raised the lid. The water was pristine-looking again. "Amazing," he said, again breathless.

…

Mark did not know what was going on, but he didn't like it very much. He felt like it was a dream, so bizarre that a figure he had considered fictional—and apparently his ancestor—there, live and in the flesh, transported somehow through time. This man came out of the loo for a second time, and again it took Mark aback; it was almost like looking in a mirror. _Except for the sideburns_ , he thought, _and the need for a shave._

"What are we to do next?" asked Darcy.

"We're going to go to my house," Mark said. "It will be easier for you to stay there comfortably." He glanced to Bridget, who looked peevish. He didn't understand why she was so put out; surely she understood how improper it would seem for him to stay with her. "It will be easy to pass you off as a… cousin or something."

Darcy looked affronted, lifting his chin in an imperious manner. "I shall not be shuttled about in the manner of a delicate package," he said. "And what am I to do whilst I am there? Sit in a corner and read a book?"

"Well, now you know how I felt," Bridget said. Then, as she turned to Mark, she added, "I mean, when I turned up there. As his, er, guest." Turning back to Darcy, she continued, "Now, brace yourself for the leaving. What you see will probably overwhelm your senses—autos, buses, billboards, the Tube. I mean, it's so different than your time." She pointed to the window. "Just have a look."

Hesitantly, Darcy made his way towards the window, then pushed aside the curtain. His gasp was audible. "Carriages… with no horses. No horses at all. Astounding. And—" Suddenly his head whipped around just as a train whooshed by, clattering and whistling, a sound the two of them had come to hear as background noise—that is to say, not hear at all. "Unbelievable."

"I suppose it rather is," said Bridget. "Well… I ought to get dressed too. And then we can go."

Bridget disappeared into the back of the flat, closing the door behind herself and leaving the two men on their own. Mark went over to the sofa and took a seat. At Darcy's querulous look, Mark explained, "She's going to be a while. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

…

Darcy did as told; he knew the ladies in his time had very long toilettes, and in this age a lady apparently had to do it all herself. He glanced to his side and saw what appeared to be a most miraculous thing: paper as shiny as a mirror, printed with exact reproductions of people as they looked, and in full colour no less. He picked it up and began turning the pages. "What is this?" Darcy murmured.

"A magazine," said Mark. "And yes, it's astonishing, when I think about it."

It really was. He slid his hand over the page, over the image of a lady in the tightest dress he had ever seen—indecent to be revealing every curve and indentation!—and a man wearing the same sort of outfit that Mark Darcy was wearing, though with what looked like a reduced, modified cravat at his throat. None of the ladies wore bonnets, not even the ones who appeared to be out of doors.

He turned a page, shocked even more by what he saw there: a woman, standing nearly nude with only the smallest amount of fabric covering her chest and her lower regions—without the faintest trace of modesty, and in fact, was smiling broadly, her skin as bronzed as a candlestick, as she stood on a beach with white sands and an azure blue sky. He found it mesmerising even as he felt embarrassed for the woman.

"All right," came Bridget's voice. "I'm all set."

"Record time," quipped Mark.

Darcy could only stare, agog. She wore a chemise of a light material, though it was much, much shorter than any chemise he had ever seen, and it had no sleeves. It was quite revealing, particularly as she wore no stockings. Her legs in fact appeared to be bare, and her shoes revealed as much of her feet as her clothing did of her body.

"You cannot go into the street looking like that," said Darcy, tossing the glossy paper aside. Even as he said it, he could not help but think again of the bronzed woman from the magazine. He turned to Mark. "You cannot allow her to leave her abode in this attire."

"I don't have much of a say what she chooses to wear," said Mark; he had an odd smirk on his face. "God knows on occasion I've tried."

"What's wrong with my dress?" she asked, looking down to herself, smoothing down the front of her shift. "It's a summer dress, because it's _summer_."

"Your dress is fine," Mark said, rising to his feet. "Come, we'll just get on—oh, bloody hell."

"What is it now?"

"I have extra clothes," Mark said, "but not extra shoes."

Bridget smiled brightly. "You've got trainers in your workout bag, don't you?"

"I'm not wearing those," Mark said.

When all was said and done, Darcy slipped into the so-called trainers. They were of a pliable material and a most curious substance comprised the sole; it was very spongy and very strange to walk upon. "You won't have to wear them for long," Mark said. "You can change into real shoes at my home."

Together they ventured out of the flat and down the stairs— _Interminable stairs_ , thought Darcy, _that look like servants would use_ —until they reached the street level. Bridget was outside first (causing unkind thoughts towards Mark for not opening the door for a lady), and…

The sights, the sounds, even the smells were overwhelming. The streets were bustling with people, and whizzing by were those amazing self-propelled carriages, loud and boisterous, and bringing with them a very pungent odour. He once again noted the absence of horses, as well as the absence of the sight and the smell of their deposits along the roadside. The sun was out and dazzlingly bright; the buildings nearby and in the distance were taller than any he had ever seen—

"Pardon…"

The sound of that word drew his attention to his right, where Mark had opened the door on one such metallic carriage, silver in colour and, and as he discovered upon taking a seat at Mark's gesture to enter, leather seats. _Some things do not change_ , he mused.

When he pulled the door closed he was astonished at how efficiently the sound from the outside had been muted. He observed that he was in the front of the carriage, and that after opening a rear door for Bridget, Mark went around and took what Darcy assumed was the position by which the vehicle was operated, to Darcy's right.

The vehicle roared to life, for lack of a better term, causing him to take in a quick breath; with the adjustment of a lever that rose out of a panel between the two of them and some movement of his feet on pedals on the floor, the vehicle crawled slightly forward, then merged out and onto the road.

The whole scenario was nigh on miraculous to him.

…

The last time she had seen such unbridled amazement on the face of someone travelling through London, she had been riding with her three-year-old godchild. She had angled herself to be able to see most of his face reflected in the passenger-side mirror, and watching him was truly amazing (and amusing) to see.

Actually, watching both of the Darcys in the front of the car was entertaining. The posture and bearing of both men, even sitting in the BMW, was so similar as to be scary—

"Bridget," Mark said sharply. "Do take a proper seat and put on your safety belt."

"I approve of that suggestion," chimed in Darcy. "Safety is of key importance."

 _Double-teamed by Darcys_ , she thought. _Just great._

In short order, they arrived to Mark's house and the look of complete approval that washed over Darcy's face was unmistakable. "Quite nice," Darcy murmured. Then he furrowed his brow. "If I recall correctly, Miss Jones, you mentioned this area is called Holland Park."

"Yes," said Mark. "This is Holland Park Avenue."

Darcy looked thoughtful. "In my time," he said wistfully, "we considered this land rural. There was a wonderful manor here… does none of it remain?" He looked to Bridget, his face paling. "And what of Pemberley? Has it been parcelled out into bits and stuffed full of homes like the land of that great manor?"

Bridget smiled. "No, of course not," she said. "Otherwise we never could have gone to spend a weekend there."

He looked relieved for a moment, then his dismay bloomed anew. "As guests of the family? _Your_ family?" he asked as he looked towards Mark. "Or…"

"It's not a family home," explained Mark as they entered the house. "It's still in trust, I understand. But it's now… what would you call it, Bridget?"

"Like a posh hotel."

"Hotel?" asked Darcy.

"Rooms for rent," Bridget said.

Darcy's eyes widened.

"More like a resort," said Mark, seeing his look of horror. "In case you're thinking 'cheap room over a tavern'-style accommodations. I'll show you the brochure. I think you'll approve."

Mark led them into the sitting room. Darcy's gait slowed until at last he stopped; something came together in his mind and he looked shocked again. "You had the master suite," he said. "You… _shared a bed_ in my suite."

"Yes," said Bridget. "We were celebrating an engagement."

"And is that why you were so eager to return to that bed in my time?"

"What?!" exploded Mark; Darcy appeared to realise his mistake at once.

"I only meant: did she realise the bed was the key to returning?" he said, his eyes on Mark.

"No!" she said. "I mean, I didn't know, and I thought I was stuck there, and…"

Mark was glowering. "Bridget," he said. "I think we should speak about this privately."

"If it is," said Darcy, "then I shall need to return to your abode."

"You shall not be sharing a bed with my fiancée," said Mark sternly.

"Mark, darling," she said. "There'll be no bed-sharing. Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened," Mark began, "or nothing had a _chance_ to happen because you vanished?"

"I can assure you that nothing happened," Darcy said.

Bridget pursed her lips. "I told you I thought I was stuck there. I may have got caught up in the moment."

"That doesn't really reassure me." Mark strode to the window, looking out. She knew what his posture said: _I'm not angry—I'm disappointed._

She thought it better than to try to talk this through with him when he was in this mood, and certainly not about the details of their relationship in front of another person. "Later, then," she said quietly; Mark nodded. Then she turned to Darcy, who also looked at a loss. "Why don't I show you around the house? I'm sure there's a lot here to baffle you."

"If there is no objection, I would very much like to see the house."

"There's no objection," Mark murmured. He did not join them.

First she showed him the kitchen. He looked around in wonder at the wall of stainless steel behind the gas hob, the stack of ovens (both microwave and convection), the counters upon which sat electric appliances. "And…" he began unsurely. "How many kitchen servants are employed?"

Bridget furrowed her brow. "Well, Mark's got a housekeeper, and I think she sometimes cooks…"

"No cook? No butler? And how does he get by without a valet?"

She smiled, her thoughts flashing to period dramas of every stripe. "No, he doesn't have anything like that. Most people do _not_. They do their own cooking, cleaning, and so on. He's only got a housekeeper because he's well-off and works long hours."

"You said he is a barrister, if I remember correctly."

She nodded. "Good memory."

"From my perspective," he said, "it has not been that long since we parted."

"How long for you?" she asked; she counted about seven months since their September minibreak.

"About a fortnight."

"Oh," she said; it must have all still been so fresh for him. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing for which you must apologise," Darcy said. He somehow managed to retain his almost aristocratic bearing even in Mark's mundane clothing. "Now, about the rest of the house?"

She smiled. He was such a gentleman; it must have been hereditary. "Yes," she said. "You'll get a huge kick out of the telly."

"The what?"

She grinned. "Oh, just wait."

…

Mark could hear the pair of them return to the ground floor; he was torn between staying put and joining them. He was still feeling a bit too raw after the revelation that Bridget had been… well, if not unfaithful in actual fact, at least in her own thoughts. After all, that blasted man, or at least the character, had been her fantasy since before he'd known her.

From the other room, he heard her laugh—throaty, genuine, spontaneous, and sexy—and he felt a surge of jealousy well with in him. He trusted her, though—didn't he? It would not do to be a smothering mother hen. On the other hand, he did not want her to slip into habits that were also older than their relationship.

Mark decided to join the house tour, despite it seeming jealous or controlling… if for no other reason than to see the two of them interact. He followed the sound of her voice; the two of them were in the library.


	2. Chapter 2

**Mr Darcy Returns**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 18,600 in four chapters and an epilogue

Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Darcy could barely speak for having viewed the 'telly'—more properly, the television—on which moving pictures displayed, coming in from all over the world. When Bridget had explained that these images were for the most part recorded, that the activity he saw on the small window was not actually happening at that moment, and that sometimes other embellishments were added after the fact to make fantastical illusions look real, he felt a small headache forming behind his eyes.

When she'd asked what was wrong, he'd told her, and she'd laughed. "Let's go have a look at the library," she said. "That's a technology you should have no trouble understanding."

The library was chock full of tomes that piqued Darcy's interest; there were a lot of non-fictional, historical tales (historical from the modern perspective, he supposed, as his gaze slid over a book about a war with Japan) as well as fiction (Bridget explained that Charles Dickens, of whom Darcy had never heard, was beloved as an author throughout Britain—"…and of course Mark has collected them all; bleak and long-winded," she had said in jest; "You'll hear of him soon enough, I'm sure.").

He continued to look, stopped suddenly and took a step back when he belatedly realised there was a familiar name—a woman's name—on the spine of one of the books. He reached for it, ran his hand over the cover. Jane Austen.

Could it have really been the same one?

"Oh, I think you'll find that one interesting," said Bridget mysteriously as he opened the leather-bound volume, the title, _Pride and Prejudice_ , emblazoned in gold on the cover. On the interior endpaper was an inscription, and after he read it, he felt embarrassed for having done so.

 _To my very own Mr Darcy… you're much better than a character in a book any day of the week. With love (and lust), B xx_

"Obviously, I wrote that before…. Well." He looked up to see Bridget turning bright red.

"No need to explain," Darcy said, flipping through its pages; he was stunned to see his own name appear more than once. "So what is this, exactly?"

"Well it's your story. Rather, a fictional version of you. This was published for the first time in 1813. We met, I think…"

"As far as I am concerned," he said, clapping the book closed, "it is 1810."

"That must be so weird."

He smiled. "Might I borrow and read this? I am very curious to see what future fate Miss Austen decided to assign to me."

"Feel free."

They turned and saw Mark—it still made Darcy cringe to think in terms of only his Christian name—at the door of the library; all trace of his previous animosity had disappeared, and rather, he looked amused. She turned back to Darcy.

"For all you know, though, this is really what happens," Bridget said. "It might not be good to reveal your future to yourself."

"Being here in the house of his descendant has already revealed the future to him, Bridget," Mark said, leaning against the threshold, folding his arms over his chest. "I hardly think this book will make a whit of difference."

"Thank you, sir," said Darcy, bowing slightly at the waist with a nod of his head.

"I was thinking," Mark said, "that it might be a good time to break for lunch."

"But I haven't shown him upstairs yet," said Bridget.

"I know," Mark said. "I'll show him to a guest room after we eat."

Darcy wasn't sure what exactly was transpiring here, but he had a feeling Mark did not want his fiancée to show another man around the bedchambers, which was only right and proper. "That sounds like an excellent idea," Darcy said. "I am feeling quite hungry, but I would not mind a short respite afterwards."

They all returned to the kitchen, where Mark was opening what appeared to be one of those cooled boxes—the 'fridge', Darcy recalled—where he pulled out a box of some sort as well as a bottle of wine. He opened another shiny metal door, punched his fingers at it (eliciting shrill beeps), then turned back to the wine bottle.

"Bridget, will you lay out the table?"

"Sure," said Bridget.

"There is no maid to do this?" Darcy asked.

"I told you," said Bridget with a grin. "Most modern folk do this for themselves." She reached up for some plates then crossed the room for the table, then crossed the room again to get some cutlery—

"Would you care for some wine?"

This, from Mark, made Darcy turn his attention quickly away from Bridget; Darcy felt embarrassed, as if he had been gawking at Bridget, but he could not reconcile the fashion of the day for women and he found himself staring as if that would help him to work it out. "Yes, that would be nice, thank you."

"Oh, me too," Bridget said.

"I thought as much," Mark said drolly, starting to pour a second glass, then reached for a third.

Darcy accepted his glass and took a small sip; it was exceptional quality, but he felt compelled to comment, "Is this not a bit much for you, Miss Jones?"

"Please, call me 'Bridget' already," she said, then added, "and do you mean the wine?"

"As you wish, Bridget, and yes," Darcy said. "It is a rather potent vintage."

To Darcy's surprise, Mark burst out with a laugh. "Bridget has never met a wine she didn't like," he said in that same droll tone.

"I can well handle it," said Bridget haughtily, taking her own glass for a sip. "Maybe later I can introduce _you_ to vodka."

Though Mark was smiling, he said, "Behave yourself, darling."

Within a few more minutes a little bell went off; Mark rose to get what Darcy now knew to be a serving dish containing their luncheon. After Mark removed the lid, steam rose up and out in a burst. Whatever it was, it smelled intriguingly of unfamiliar spices. With a large spoon Mark dug into the dish and served up a generous portion to Darcy. He looked down to his plate: lurid viscous red liquid, layers of something flat and flaccid, and globules of white that might have been cheese and dark that might have been meat of some kind.

"Might I enquire as to what this dish is?" he asked, his voice sounding more suspicious than he intended.

Bridget chuckled, digging her fork into the portion Mark had served to her. "It's lasagne. Italian. Tomato sauce, noodles, cheese and minced beef."

By this point Mark had his own serving and was cutting into it, bringing a forkful to his mouth, then had a sip of the wine.

Darcy hesitated.

"Honestly, we're not trying to kill you," joked Bridget as she brought up a portion for herself.

"What," Darcy asked, "are noodles?"

Bridget laughed, then coughed; it took her a moment to compose herself. "Sorry, just tried to inhale my lunch there. Um… it's flour and egg, I think? We don't actually make them ourselves. We get them in a box from the supermarket."

"Super-market?" Darcy asked.

She waved her hand. "Just eat before it gets cold."

…

 _A child_ , thought Bridget; _it's like introducing a giant child to a new food_. With a grin on her lips she had another bite of food, then another; she glanced over to see Darcy tentatively putting his fork in his mouth, furrowing his brow, and, after a few chews made a face she recognised instantly as approval. When he swallowed, he turned to Bridget.

"That is… different than anything I have ever eaten," he said, "but I find it quite appealing."

"Oh, good," she said, beaming, picking up more lasagne, and with that, they carried on eating, drinking their respective glasses of wine, until both plate and wineglass were empty.

"Care for any more?" asked Mark.

"Ah, no, I thank you," said Darcy. "I am feeling quite satiated. I believe I shall take you up on the offer of the… guest room."

The two men pushed back from the table simultaneously, which made her chuckle. "I'll tidy up the kitchen if you want to do that," said Bridget, and as she did, felt a lump in her stomach; she knew there was a conversation they needed to have.

Mark nodded, and the two men rose and departed the room together. She rose, too, cleared away the plates and loaded them straight into the dishwasher; she also covered the remains of the lasagne and placed them back into the refrigerator. She poured herself a half-glass more of wine and glugged it down, waiting for Mark to return to the kitchen.

"Well, the guest is comfortable," said Mark.

She turned to look at him, smiling half-heartedly. "Good."

Mark chuckled. "Further reinforcements?"

"Hm?"

"I noticed the bottle's now empty."

Bridget looked down. "Well, it seemed a waste of good wine."

"You did offer to clean the kitchen." He came nearer, then turned and began to pace, hands planted firmly on his hips. "So. What happened." It was more of a command than a question.

"I told you. Nothing happened."

"Bridget," he said curtly. "Please do _not_ lie to me. It is quite plain to me that this man is pining for you."

She looked up at him. "Why do you say that?"

"I can read the signs as easily as if they were my own."

She should have guessed. "It is not mutual, Mark. Yes, it was very exciting to be in Pemberley, to meet an iconic character—or at least a man that was the model for one. But it is you that I love, Mark. That never wavered for a moment."

"Did it ever have opportunity to waver?" As he asked this, he turned to face her.

She knew what he was really asking. She cleared her throat, thinking hard about what she wanted to say before she said it. "If I felt anything at all like attraction for him," she said, "if I was drawn to him for any reason, it was because he reminded me of you." She went over to Mark, placing her hand on his arm, leaning into him. They stood there in relative silence, but the fact that he didn't pull away from her was a good sign. "I missed you so, so much," she said quietly. "You have to remember from my point of view, I was there for a week. I had no idea I'd ever return. I felt totally bereft… and he looked so much like you…"

"Did you sleep with him." Another command.

"No."

"Was it for lack of trying?"

She looked away, and then said in a very small voice, "I might have got a little carried away."

"After a week," he thundered, "he nearly conquers you—and it took me a year?"

She snorted with a laugh. " _Conquers_ me?" she asked. "You sound like him!"

"Bridget."

"Don't you think the resemblance, the mannerisms, _everything_ , might have had just a _little_ bit to do with it?" She threw her hands up in the air. "I didn't expect you to understand. And nothing happened." After a moment, she added, "Except for a snog."

"Just a snog?"

Not without a measure of guilt, she thought about their aborted shag—merely a swoop into his arms, divesting her of the dressing gown, brushing his hand over her waist—and said without missing a beat, "Just a snog." She then reached up and kissed him, pleased that he didn't pull away; in fact, he took her into his arms and pulled her close up against her.

He broke away, whispering close to her ear, "Was that a demonstration?"

"No, you arse," she said, kissing him again.

His hands came down over her waist to cup her backside. "Definitely none of this, then."

She was so glad of his return to good humour she laughed in both amusement and relief. "Definitely not."

"Well, you said 'arse'," he murmured, "and I _assumed_ …"

"Shut up," she said and kissed him again.

After a few more moments of increasingly passionate kissing, it became obvious that there would be only one successful way to resolve things, so he drew back, stroked her cheek with his fingertips, then silently slipped his arm around her shoulders, directing her towards the stairs. If not for Darcy's presence in the house, she would have lobbied for shagging on the sofa.

The bubble of that little dream would soon burst. As they scaled the stairs, they found Darcy emerging from the guest room looking perturbed and, from within the guest room, the sound of a thumping bass and rapid fire spoken word vocals. Mark's arm slipped down from around her.

"What is the meaning of that strange box," Darcy said, "and the troubled man inside shouting obscenities about young ladies?"

Mark sighed, then went past and turned off the rap, turning on the classical station. As he returned he grumbled, "How you managed to find that station is beyond me."

"What manner of magic is that?" Darcy asked. "Is that like the… telly box?"

She chuckled. "A bit."

"Fascinating," he said, staring at the radio again. "I was unable to rest and curiosity got the better of me. With this music, however, I might indeed be able to. What an astonishing thought: private music as one rests in one's room." He gave a short bow at the waist. "I think I shall try to sleep for a bit. Thank you."

With that Darcy retreated and closed the door behind him. Bridget turned to Mark, brushing her fingers against his cheek. "Headphones might have made the man's brain explode. Now. Where were we?" she asked seductively, waggling her brows.

He raised his hand to cover hers, but pulled it away. "Darling, I don't think I can…" Mark trailed off, then added, nodding towards the guest room door, "where he might hear."

…

Mark waited for the disappointment to find her features; it did not take long for her brows to crumple, the corners of her mouth to edge downwards. "But Mark…"

"I know, darling," he said. "It's just a bit of a wet blanket, is all."

"He was just as there five minutes ago," she said.

"It was easier to overlook when I didn't know he was still awake." He bent to kiss her. "Come on, let's go have a lie down, too. This day has been very exhausting."

"All right," she said resignedly.

He knew that she would not be content to merely sleep, but he was determined to not allow her to, for lack of a better term, seduce him. He stripped down to his boxers and vest to show her he meant business.

With a small smile she slipped out of her dress; it was then, looking at her standing there in her bra and pants, that he became uncertain of his resolve. It weakened further when she took off even those; it seemed like she was going extra slowly just to torment him. She pulled the duvet and sheets back and slipped in, fixing his gaze with her own. "Well, come on, let's get some sleep in before supper."

He cleared his throat, nodded, and slipped in beside her.

Determined to actually nap, he turned onto his side facing away from her, but he should have known this would not deter her. She merely slipped her hand along his arm, then around his waist, pressing herself up against his back, planting kisses against his shoulder as her fingers grazed his abdomen.

"Bridget," he whispered in warning.

Her response was to open her mouth and press her tongue to his skin.

"Bridget," he warned again, willing himself to think of unattractive or even unpleasant things—like messy bedrooms and Natasha—but as her hand moved down, his body began to betray him; he stifled the low groan in his throat as best he could, but had much less control over other areas of his body.

"You are a terrible influence," he growled as he turned over to face her at last.

She smirked and said, "You love it."

She was right. He did love it. Loved her.

The sense of defeat (such as it was) on his part was mitigated by the fact that he did, in fact, sleep soundly for the duration of his nap. So sound was his sleep that when he awoke, he found he was alone in the room, and that by the position of the sun in the sky it must have been late afternoon.

He had a quick look in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable before going downstairs, listening for signs of life and homing in on the sound of Bridget's distinctive voice. At the sound of a chuckle, he wondered if she had rung up one of her friends—and he hoped dearly that she did not tell everyone what was happening or they'd both be locked up for delusions—but he stopped in his tracks on the stairs when he heard a deep voice say something in return. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew exactly who was speaking.

With renewed determination Mark carried on down into the kitchen, where he found a strange tableau: Bridget was stirring a pot of what he suspected was tomato sauce, while next to her a pot of water was boiling. Darcy sat on a stool at the breakfast nook, watching her raptly, looking awkward on the high seat.

His movement caught her attention, and she beamed a smile towards him. "Oh! Hi!"

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm cooking," she said, her smile dropping a bit. "You don't have to sound like I'm about to blow up the kitchen."

"My fears would not be wholly unfounded," he murmured, then went over to confirm she was making spaghetti for dinner.

"I have never actually set fire to anything," she pouted.

"Not for lack of trying, darling," he said. He turned his gaze to Darcy. "Did you have a pleasant rest?"

"Pleasant enough," Darcy said. "Everything here is so constantly noisy, I am not certain how anyone gets a moment of peace. However, the music certainly helped."

Mark pushed any thoughts of the noise having arisen from within the house, and said instead, "Glad to hear it."

"Miss—Bridget has advised more of this… pasta for dinner." Mark could tell that the pause was due to the uncertainty of saying the unfamiliar word.

"Since he seemed to like the lasagne so well," she said. "Do you have some cheese to grate?"

"I might just," said Mark. "I'll grate it."

Darcy looked at him as if he were mad. Mark assumed the man thought that kitchen prep was not in the purview of the man of the house. As Mark fetched the wedge of parmesan out of the refrigerator, Darcy asked, "Is your situation really so low?"

"Pardon?"

"You must prepare your own food? Your betrothed reduced to the role of cook?"

Bridget burst out with a laugh.

Darcy continued, undaunted, "I mean, do you no longer have the income to afford staff? Miss Bridget claims you are a well-off barrister—and how is that you employ your days in a field intended for a second son?—yet you have no valet, you have no _cook_ …"

"That's really not a thing people do anymore," Bridget said.

"Well, some people do have staff," said Mark. "But no, valeting is not really a calling these days."

Darcy looked like he thought the world had fallen to pieces since his day.

In short order, all of the dinner's components were ready; he was suddenly ravenous at the sight and smell of the generous portions. Mark poured three glasses of wine. They all must have been hungry, as there was no conversation apart from asking to pass the salt or the bottle of wine to top up.

"What about dessert?" she asked, clearly a bit more than tipsy. "Ooh, crème brûlée? Have you got one of those little torches?"

"I don't have the ingredients for that," he said, "nor do I have the tool to brown it. Not to mention that I don't fancy you burning down the kitchen."

He'd been kidding, and he thought she knew it, but she brought her brows down and pouted a little. "I managed to make dinner just fine without burning anything down."

"Darling, I only meant that imbibing plus open flame—"

He stopped short when the chair legs screeched against the floor as she pushed back from the table, stood, then stormed out of the room.

He had no idea from where this reaction had come, and he sat, stunned for a moment, until a voice from beside him said, "Does this mean we must clear the table ourselves?"

He looked to his doppelgänger in disbelief. "Pardon me," he said, then rose. "And yes, clear the table. Rinse off the plates and stack them by the sink." Loading the dishwasher was probably too much to ask of a nineteenth-century aristocrat.

…

The kitchen in which Darcy stood at present was as foreign as anything he'd ever chanced to be in. Everything seemed constructed of metal—how did the floor not bow or collapse under its weight?—and he failed to see how they opened. He only knew that they did because he'd seen Bridget open them, withdraw the clean dishes, then close them again.

He could say the same about the sink. He had seen how she turned the flow on and off again, but never would have known how it functioned otherwise. Certainly they were a convenience. Even if he did have to do the work himself.

One by one he brought the plates over, assiduously rinsing each plate under the flow of water, then stacked them neatly to the side as directed.

Once that was complete, he began to pace the room a little, his hands folded against the small of his back. _What to do now?_

A sharp rapping caught his attention; he turned and saw, standing at the French windows, a male figure dressed in clothing similar to what Mark had worn (and what he himself wore), holding a hand up as if in greeting. He wondered if he should answer it, then realised that the man was holding up something, as if meant for delivery.

Darcy walked to the door, turned the handle, and opened the door.

"Mark, old chap, here are those files you asked for." The portly, red-cheeked man held the packet out. "You all right, mate? You look peaked."

"Pardon?" he asked, then quickly added, "Yes, I am fine."

The man looked sceptical, but handed the packet over. "You have your girl here tonight?"

"Yes," he said quickly. He figured that hesitating would only sound suspicious. "Thank you for taking the time to bring this all the way over here."

"All the way here? It's a three minute detour at best. No worries at all. Well, have a good evening. Sorry to interrupt."

The man stepped back—no idea what his name was, but surely Mark would know from whom the packet came—and Darcy closed the door.

It had been rather a close call. He was just as glad to not have to explain why there were two men who looked so alike there in the house. Actually, not that (with Mark's proposed cousin story available), but why Darcy had implied he was Mark.

He supposed he had just been taken aback at the unexpected interaction.

He also supposed he ought to find Mark to deliver this important arrival.

…

Mark found her standing in the hallway. She had pulled the pillow off of her side of the bed, and was digging through the linen closet for a blanket that she then began to pull down from the top shelf.

"What are you doing?" he asked despite the obviousness of her actions, forgetting for the moment that he had an apology to deliver. He was soon reminded. She turned to him, her expression somewhere between anger, frustration, and despair.

"Do you have to do that, especially in front of _him_?"

"Do what?" he asked in exasperation.

"Make a disparaging comments, then say you're only joking?" she asked. "It makes me feel about an inch high."

"But I thought…" he began, then trailed off. It really was rather undermining of her confidence, even when said in jest. He took a deep breath. She stared at him expectantly. He spoke. "You're right."

"Sorry, what?" she asked, perplexed.

"You're right, and I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't do that, and I'll do my best to stop."

She dropped the pillow. "That's all?" she said. "I mean, could this be the shortest disagreement we've ever had?"

He chuckled. "It's possible," he said. "So, perhaps you will not need to sleep on the sofa after all."

"Perhaps not."

He reached to give her a kiss, only to hear a voice:

"Pardon me—should she not have her father's permission?"

They both turned to look at Darcy.

"Permission for what, exactly?"

"Such… intimate relations. You are not yet married."

Mark chuckled. He couldn't help himself. "A thirty-four-year-old woman hardly requires her father's permission in this day and age."

Darcy looked torn. "I am not quite sure how I feel about this."

"Women are people in their own right," Bridget said, bristling. "The sooner you lot realise that, the better."

"'You lot'?" Darcy asked.

"I think she means 'balding, middle-class twits', except that you are neither balding, nor middle class."

Darcy looked even more perplexed. "But what if you conceive an heir? His legitimacy would forever be in question."

"I'm using contraception," Bridget said.

Darcy clearly did not understand the word, so Mark explained, "We take measures to prevent an unexpected pregnancy."

This, of course, made Darcy look like his head might implode. "How do you mean?" he asked. "By what means is this achieved?" His voice dropped to a horrified whisper, "Witchcraft?"

"Modern chemistry," said Bridget, "and other technological advances."

Darcy thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I expect this is a natural reaction to combating the high mortality rate of women during childbirth."

"Oh, but modern medicine means _that_ happens far less frequently."

Darcy looked confused, then shook his head. "Never mind. I believe there is too much to it that I cannot possibly hope to understand from my perspective."

Bridget looked totally sympathetic. Mark noticed for the first time that Darcy bore a tied manila folder. "What is that you have there?"

"My apologies," Darcy said; he seemed to be extremely grateful for the change in subject. "A courier of some sort brought this to the French windows." He held it out.

"Ah," Mark said. "This would have been Giles bringing the briefs by that I'd asked for."

"I believe he thought that I was you."

"Right," Mark said. "I'll claim not recalling details from a headache, if asked."

"Or anticipation at spending the rest of your evening with your future wife."

Mark smiled. That wasn't untrue. "Or that."

"It has been a very tiring day," Darcy said. "I think that I might very much like to retire for the evening."

"Of course," said Mark, gesturing towards the guest room door. "We'll likely retire early, too."

"You recall where the loo is, yes?"

Darcy nodded once, curtly. "Thank you. See you for the morning meal."


	3. Chapter 3

**Mr Darcy Returns**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 18,600 in four chapters and an epilogue  
Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

The light seemed to penetrate through the curtains all too soon that next morning, and with a yawn Bridget turned and stretched. Mark's arm came around her waist from behind her, and he snuggled in close. She sighed happily, grateful that she had not spent the night elsewhere in the house.

"Morning," he murmured.

"Mmm," she said.

"Sleep well?"

"Very well," she said.

"Suppose we ought to rouse ourselves," Mark said. "There is a guest present, after all."

Right. She felt a little deflated, actually; she'd hoped to have a long lie in and maybe more than a cuddle, but that seemed unlikely now. "I suppose you're right," Bridget said. How would this work, long-term? Would Mark have to care for his ancestor for the rest of his life? How would he get treatment from a doctor? How—

"Bridget, you're a million miles away. What's going on?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"Penny for?"

"Well, about Darcy down there. Short-term, things are fine, but long-term…"

"Your situation was short-term," said Mark. "Perhaps his will be too. We just have to ride it out."

"I hope you're right," she said. "Three's a crowd, I think."

When they arrived to the kitchen—after morning ablutions and dressing, Mark taking the time to shave—they found Darcy sitting at the table with a glass of water, reading a book. Beside the water glass sat a browned apple core. At their appearance, he set down the book, rose to his feet, and bowed a little at the waist. _Old habits die hard_ , she thought.

"Good morning to you both," he said. Bridget realised he was badly in need of a shave. "I waited for some time before taking the apple and some water."

"How long ago did you wake up?" Bridget asked.

"Shortly before first light," he said. "I am an early riser, usually."

"I'll do a fry-up," said Mark. "I'm ravenous, and I imagine you are, as well."

"A fry-up?" asked Darcy.

"I think you'll like it," said Bridget.

"Then after we've eaten, I'll get you fixed up. With a shave."

"Ooh," said Bridget. This, she would have to see.

Mark's fry-up was one of the best he'd done. Darcy was clearly reluctant at first, poking at this beans with the tine of his fork, but after he'd had a taste or two he devoured the entire plate of food, washing it down with two cups of coffee, of which he had really seemed to become very fond. _He's going to regret this addiction_ , thought Bridget.

The shaving walkthrough was much more hilarious than Bridget had anticipated, though she did her best not to laugh. Darcy looked at the safety razor as if it were a strange, metallic flower.

"This is very compact," Darcy said, cocking a brow as he inspected it.

"Yes," Mark said. "The razor blades are smaller and more covered for safety reasons. It's meant to keep one from shaving off one's earlobe or nose."

Bridget laughed, which apparently suggested to Darcy that the man was making a joke, and he smiled too as he met Bridget's eye. As quickly as he did so, though, he looked away and back to Mark. "Well," Darcy said. "I suppose you had best show me how this works. But must she remain?"

"Yes," Mark said. She could have kissed him.

With Darcy standing at the sink in the _en suite_ , Mark mixed up his shaving cream and then handed him the brush. "You use this on the areas that you shave," Mark said.

"I do know what to do with this," Darcy said sharply, then added in a more conciliatory tone, "but I thank you." He lathered the shaving cream onto his chin and neck.

"Then you would just use the safety razor as you would the straight razor."

He nodded a little. "I… apologise for my curtness. I am not used to doing this myself. Usually my valet does this."

Mark nodded.

As the man began to use the razor, Mark said, "You may want to…" He gestured towards his own face. "…shorten your sideburns a little. They're a little longer than is currently fashionable."

Bridget burst into a laugh. "Mark, _yours_ are longer than is currently fashionable," she said. He pursed his lips. "Of course, I like them as they are." This was apparently sufficient as an apology.

They were just finishing up when Bridget heard the bell go off at the front door. "Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No," said Mark. "Are you?"

It was true that staying the night, last night, had not been planned, and so this was a valid question from Mark. And then she remembered: she had made plans to meet Shazzer. And she had no idea what she'd done with her mobile. "Maybe."

He sighed. "Let me go and see who it is."

…

It was Mark's house, after all, so it made sense for him to answer his own door. Leaving Bridget alone with his double… well, he wasn't concerned. He could trust her.

As he got closer to the door, he thought he recognised who it was just from the shadow at the door. Bridget's friend, Sharon. Whom he really did not want to let in with their current visitor. But he disarmed the alarm system, and opened the door to her, all the same.

"Hello, Sharon," he said.

"Bridget here?" she said. She had her arms folded over her chest. "I've been ringing her mobile for an hour. We were supposed to meet for brunch."

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Can I come in? See her?"

"She's… upstairs."

Not unexpectedly, she didn't wait for an invitation, and marched right in. "Why did you sound so unsure? Is Bridget really here? Or…" She narrowed her eyes. "…someone Bridget wouldn't want to know was here?"

Was she actually suggesting there was another woman here? "Don't be ridiculous. Let me just go and get her."

This turned out to be unnecessary, as Bridget came down the stairs just then. "Sorry, sorry," she said. "I forgot, and I can't find my phone."

"You were hounding me about going to this place for brunch for a week, and you _forgot_?"

"Something kind of came up."

Sharon looked very doubtful. "What on earth came up?"

"My cousin is unexpectedly in town," Mark blurted out. "She's been helping me entertain him."

"I have been. I'm sorry," said Bridget.

"I didn't know you had a cousin," said Sharon.

"Oh yes, yes," said Bridget. "From the country. Very conservative."

Sharon's brows rose. " _More_ conservative than Mark?" she asked with a smirk, winking at Mark. "This should be good. Is he here?"

"Upstairs," said Bridget.

"Can I meet him?"

Mark said, "Absolutely _not_."

"Well, then," she said with an evil grin, "I think that I absolutely must meet him."

The debate of meeting him versus not meeting him was moot, because he saw Sharon's gaze flick upwards, and knew that Darcy had appeared on the landing.

"Well, I certainly see the resemblance," she murmured as he descended and came to stand beside Mark. He had apparently finished shaving without incident, and looked more than ever like… if not a twin, then at least a brother.

As Darcy stood there in silence, he realised that the man was waiting to be introduced. "Allow me to introduce you to Sharon, a friend of Bridget's. Sharon, this is—"

"William," Bridget interrupted. If this confused or rattled Darcy, he didn't show it.

Sharon held out her hand. "Nice to meet you," she said.

Darcy took the proffered hand and pressed a gallant kiss upon the back of it. "The pleasure is all mine, I am sure," Darcy said.

"Fuck _me_ , those country manners," she said; was Sharon actually blushing? "Are you in town long?"

Darcy looked stunned, almost too stunned to speak. "Ah, no, I am not," he managed.

"It's… an open-ended stay," Mark said.

"Married?" Sharon asked with a wink.

"I am not," he said coolly.

"Well, _that's_ definitely Darcyish," said Sharon with a laugh. "So, curious: have you got a girlfriend?"

Darcy brought his brows together. "If you mean am I courting a young lady?… no." Mark swore his eyes flicked quickly to Bridget.

Sharon smiled, clearly amused. "Ah. Boyfriend?"

Darcy looked even more confused. "I'm not sure what you—"

" _Sharon_ ," Mark said, "if you want to go to brunch with Bridget, I'm sure she could be ready within a few minutes." He didn't really believe it, but he hoped Bridget could take the hint and help to get Sharon out of there.

"Yes! I'll just get on my shoes…" Bridget fumbled to get them on, then ran around looking for her handbag. He would have to thank her properly later.

"You know, it's all right if you are," Sharon went on. "If you have a boyfriend. We're all forward-thinking here about these things, even Mark, as shocking as that might seems."

"Shaz, come on." Bridget had found it, and was heading for the door. "If we go now we can still get a table."

Sharon cast a long glance to Mark, then to Darcy. "All right," she said. "Goodbye, Mark. Nice to meet you, William. Let me know if you want a break from these two, all right?" She winked, and with that, and they left.

Mark ran his hand over his face.

"Is that typical of the modern woman? The language, the intimation that I am inclined to bugger other men…"

He dropped his hand, looked to Darcy. "No, I would not say that Sharon is typical," he said; in many ways, she was one of the most unique people he knew. But then he thought about what Darcy was really asking, and amended his comment: "But, well, women are not the meek, passive fragile flowers that they were expected to be in your time, I think. She says what she thinks a little too readily, and uses harsher language, but she's probably more typical than not."

He watched as the colour drained out of Darcy's face. "That is… daunting."

"I'm sure it seems that way," Mark said. "But you know, women comprise more than half of all humanity. Why should they not speak up for themselves?" As he said it, he thought that Bridget would have been proud to hear him speak this way.

"I see," said Darcy, and indeed, he did look thoughtful. "It is certainly a novel way for me to think of things."

…

After adventures in modern shaving, after the encounter with Sharon, the opinionated, brash friend of Bridget's, Darcy pardoned himself for some time alone, and returned to the room to which he had been assigned. He glanced to the book that Bridget had given to him, but he no longer wanted to read anything more in case it gave him any hint to his own future. He did not want to know.

He did not understand what had happened to him, but he had to think it had happened for a reason. Was he to learn some kind of lesson from this foray into the future? Was it to assure him, to give him confidence that he would find a suitable wife, if his legacy had continued to persist for centuries? More than that, he realised he did not, in fact, want—…how had Mark phrased it?—a fragile flower for a wife. He did not want someone who would only speak when spoken to, or acquiesce to his every request without a challenge. He wanted someone who could not only comfort him, but could make him laugh. He wanted someone who would accept comfort, and laugh, in turn.

He wanted an equal partner.

In truth, he wanted Bridget. He knew that this was not a reasonable request. Even if he knew how transport from the past to the future (and vice versa) worked, he had no guarantee that he could bring her back with him, or that she'd stay. It would also not be fair to Mark, he realised. Mark had fair claim to her, which sounded more proprietary than the situation called for. Because no man could ever claim a woman like her as 'his'. She was her own woman; of that there was no doubt.

He must have dozed off, and when he awoke he heard a commotion downstairs. He supposed it was Bridget returning to the house. He rose, went to the loo, surprised once again at his own appearance. How different he looked with the smaller sideburns, wearing these modern clothes—in actual fact, he felt distinctly underdressed, as used to the various layers he was accustomed to wearing every day.

When he came downstairs, he saw not Bridget, but Mark. "Ah, I was just heading up to let you know that we're about to have dinner."

Dinner? He hadn't believed himself to be up there that long, but he must have been. "Did I sleep through dinner preparation?"

"No," he said. "Bridget just arrived and she brought it with her. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"Brought dinner home from an inn, or a tavern?" he wondered. "By herself? Plates and platters and…?"

"No, something called 'takeaway'—packaged up in paper boxes," said Mark. He grinned. "Sometimes they even bring it to your house for you."

Darcy shook his head in utter disbelief. "I suppose we should go down there," he said, as strange as it was for him to find himself once again in an area of the house usually in the servants' domain.

The scent of whatever it was she had brought home was certainly interesting and unusual; when he reached the lower level, he saw that she had put the food into what appeared to be some kind of serving bowls. It looked very similar to the pasta they had previously had, though it was not the same colour, more orange than red, and there was a certain pungency to it.

"What is this?" Darcy asked. Then he cleared his throat. "Pardon. That sounded a little demanding. I am just… utterly perplexed."

"This is called pad Thai," said Bridget. "There are noodles—only these are of rice, not of wheat flour—and chicken, and egg, and spices with fish sauce and tamarind, I think? And peanut sauce." She pointed to each one of these things as she named it. "I also got a mild chicken curry with rice noodles, because I wasn't sure if you were allergic to peanuts."

Darcy was still confused. He had no idea what half of those words even meant, least of all…. "Allergic?"

"You know… you eat it, you have a bad reaction to it, your throat closes up and…"

"I think I will try the other dish. The… curry."

Mark laughed. "Way to sell a dish, darling."

In the end, after watching the two of them eat it and not fall over dead, Darcy did have a taste of the other dish, and he felt no ill effect, so he had a greater portion of it as well.

"So from where did this cuisine originate? It is unlike anything I've ever had."

"Um…" Bridget glanced to Mark. "Thailand?"

Darcy was no further enlightened. "I do not believe I have heard of this place."

Mark offered, "Siam?"

A faint trace of recognition set in. "Ah. Yes. I have heard of Siam. All of this is from that land? I thought that peanuts were of the Americas…"

"Well, I think that curry is more of an Indian thing, but there's a lot of crossover," she said. "I'm glad you're enjoying it, in any case."

"I am, very much indeed," he said.

He wondered what other amazements they (well, _she_ ) had in store for him that night. He did not have to wonder too long. After they finished eating then cleared the table, Bridget suggested retiring to the sitting room in front of the telly again. "We showed you some programmes, but how would you like to watch a film?" she asked.

"'Film'?"

"Think of it as you would a play," said Mark. "Or a book being performed for you. Interpreted for you."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I am willing to try."

The film that she chose turned out to be familiar to him, after all: a tale from Shakespeare himself, _Much Ado About Nothing_ , an utter transformation of the material from the written page to the sunny summer sun of the Continent.

He was enraptured. Utterly drawn in. The presentation had allowed him to see the story as he had never seen it before, and to understand it even more than before, and on a whole new level. Even if they seemed to have changed some of the language, possibly for more modern ears. The context of it all was enough.

…

It was almost more fun to watch Darcy watching the film than to watch the film herself, never mind that she'd seen it a half-dozen times before. It was fortuitous that she'd left her copy over at his place a few weeks ago, and that they never actually had gotten around to watching it at that time. _It wasn't every day that you got to see someone watch a film for the first time_ , she thought. _Not just this film. Any film_.

Asking seemed almost unnecessary, but she had to, upon the conclusion: "What did you think?"

"That was quite astounding," he said, quite unguardedly. "It amazes me that one could see entertainment such as this without the need to travel to the theatre."

"We still have those, too. Plays, and operas, musical groups and singers… there is no shortage of things to do."

"It sounds far more complicated than country life in my time," Darcy said.

"I don't know," said Bridget, recollecting her time in Regency; "navigating all of those balls and those complicated country dances…"

Darcy smiled a little and said, "I expect all of that was as challenging to you as this is to me." Suddenly, as he got to his feet, the man looked like someone who'd seen the overwhelming amount of things he had seen since his arrival. "If you will pardon me, I should like to retire for the evening."

Mark stood too, urged her to stand also, which she did. "Of course. Feel free to avail yourself, as you need to."

"Thank you," Darcy said. "Good night to both of you." He bowed a bit at the waist, then left the room.

"Well," said Mark after he was gone. "Did you want me to take you home?"

She knew he was asking because she rarely stayed over two nights in a row, and she smiled. "Upstairs, more like," she said with a wink.

"Oh, thank God," he said, prompting her to giggle, then put her arms around him. She had to admit that she could use a little release, too, after such a weird and stressful series of events.

…

Perhaps due to the long period of relaxation Darcy had had that afternoon, coupled with his mind racing after the fantastical imagery of the film he had seen, he had a fitful time once he had retired to his quarters for the evening. Strange, really, considering how physically exhausted he felt. After tossing and turning for longer than he cared to think about it, he threw back the bed clothes, and rose from the bed. Would that he had just a simple candle—he couldn't quite work out how to turn on the lamp for some artificial light by which to read. Instead, he crossed the darkened room to the window to gaze out onto this modern London.

There was not much of a view out of the window except for other houses that looked very similar to this one. In this way, he thought with some amusement, London had not changed that much. Instead of horse-drawn landaus, however, there were those contraptions that Mark had called "automobiles"; the streets, at least, were much cleaner (and the air sweeter-smelling) for the lack of manure.

It was then that he heard it. A soft thump against the wall. Then another. Then more, each one louder with an increasing pace. He had no idea what in God's name the sound could be—until another sound helped the realisation to dawn. He had shared carnal pleasures with enough women to know the sound of the one in the throes of pleasure.

He did not quite know how to feel. The instinctive flood of heat to his cheeks was something he could not control—nor was the flush of desire he felt putting himself in his namesake's place, for Bridget was a beautiful, desirable woman, and he had come so close to lying with her, himself.

The thumping and the moaning were soon joined by a low groan; building were both his embarrassment at hearing their sounds of coitus and his own desire… and a frustration at being able to do anything about any of it. Well. There was one thing he could do, he realised, and though he was proud, he could not leave himself in the state he was in.

It was not difficult to bring about his own relief. He had her moans and his own imagination to urge him on. Before long the thumping ceased; the increasing, ever louder moans, and a protracted groan suggested a culmination had been reached. Darcy too was catching his breath, having spent himself with a surprising rapidity.

In all of the beds he had shared, no woman had ever quite expressed her own pleasure quite so vehemently and passionately. He imagined the women of his own time being horrified at the very idea—but in his heart, the idea that a woman could feel her own joy so deeply brought him great happiness. And, to his surprise, fuelled his desire more than he would have expected.

He hoped he could find such a woman for himself… whether here, should he have to stay for ever, or in his own day. He feared it would be far more difficult in the past, though in this present, he would be sorely biased towards one particular woman, one he could not have.

And when he did finally find sleep, he was tormented by dreams in which he was allowed to take such liberties with her, and found nocturnal pleasure in said dreams. He was sure that when he awakened in the morning that he would not feel at all well-rested.

When the sun came up, Darcy found he had been right. He rose, went to the loo, brought out a towel from the linen closet, and brought a roaring stream of hot water to life by turning the taps as he had been shown. After the night before, he needed to feel clean, and he made ample use of the bar of soap allotted for his use.

He dressed in the dressing gown once again, then returned to his room to don more of the garments they had set aside for him (still thought of them as strange, but he was getting used to the comfort of them, and the lightness of the fabrics). He shaved, too, using the razor and the shaving cream he had been given.

When he went downstairs to the kitchen, he found Mark already down there, making himself a cup of coffee. Darcy found himself unable to meet the man's eye.

"Morning," Mark said. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough, I thank you," he said, then said nothing more.

"Care for some coffee?"

"I would, thank you."

After a moment or two, a cup appeared before him at the table as Mark set it down, then sat at the table too, his newspaper folded and unread at his side. He made no move to read it. Darcy picked up his own cup, and sipped from it, thinking idly that he would miss the beverage so freely available here when or if he got zapped back.

After many minutes of silence, Mark asked, "Something on your mind?"

Darcy found himself saying, quite unexpectedly, "If you don't marry Miss Jones—Bridget—as soon as possible, you are a total fool."

He looked up at last to see Mark's utter surprise.

"You have planned a date, yes?" Darcy asked. "Having the banns read?"

"We have not yet set a date," Mark said.

Darcy shook his head. "Why the delay?" he asked. "You must do so at once."

"I know," he said quietly.

Delicately, Darcy asked, "Is… is going to Gretna Green still frowned upon? So much has changed since my day."

Mark actually laughed. "It's not necessary to go to Scotland to elope these days," he said. "Mrs Jones—Bridget's mum—would have my head if I we did that."

"And her father? How has he not challenged you to a duel for—" Darcy stopped suddenly; he did not want to betray that he had overheard anything last night. "For having relations prior to marriage?"

Mark was silent, then… Darcy swore the man flushed as deeply red as he had the night before. He knew then that Mark knew they'd been overheard. Diplomatically, Mark said, "I think he trusts that his daughter knows what she's doing. She is not a child, after all—she's in her thirties. And her parents and my parents have been friends for years, so I'm not a stranger to them."

Darcy saw the logic of the man's words, even though in his own day a woman who hadn't married by the age of thirty probably never would. He supposed that women who married young had to rely on the wisdom of their parents. Women who did not marry young had more time to learn about the world for themselves…

Times had definitely changed.

"And besides, there's not much duelling done these days," Mark added.

"More's the pity," he said, though he offered a smile to let Mark know he wasn't entirely serious.

Before anything more could be said, Darcy and Mark both seemed to hear footsteps at the same time on their approach to the kitchen. As expected, it was Bridget, who looked between the two men.

"Don't think I could possibly ever get used to this," she murmured, more to herself than anything.

"Coffee's done," Mark said.

"I could smell it halfway down the stairs, thank you," she said, going to fix herself a cup. "So, what do you think about getting out of the house today? Getting a bit of cabin fever all cooped up in here."

"'Cabin fever'?"

"When you've been stuck in the same place too long and start to feel restless," Mark explained.

"Yes," said Bridget. "That."

"So what did you have in mind?" Mark asked.

"A little old… a little new," she said with a devilish smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Mr Darcy Returns**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 18,600 in four chapters and an epilogue

Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

After they ate their breakfast—fruit and a pastry, considerably less sedate than the 'full English'—they went into Mark's silver vehicle. "So what's our first stop?" he said.

"The Tower," she said, "and The Shard, for starters."

Darcy was both alarmed and confused.

"Ah, I see what you're thinking," Mark said. This did not make Darcy feel any better.

The Tower to which Bridget referred was in fact exactly what he thought it was… but he was surprised (and relieved) to learn that it was a sightseeing destination now, and no longer in active use. Mark found a place to put the car and they took a short walk on the grounds (Darcy demurred taking an actual tour of the place, though he was fascinated to hear that the ravens were still in residence).

Standing at the side of the Thames—the river's presence also a comforting constant—and looking at the London skyline as far as the eye could see… it was like looking at a dreamscape. Buildings taller than anything he'd ever seen, reaching heights and forming shapes that defied description. Rounded, of glass and silver… he found himself once again speechless.

"How strange this must all seem to you," Bridget said, suddenly next to him at the rail.

"That is an understatement," Darcy said. "'There is more in heaven and earth…'"

"'Than is dreamt of in your philosophy,'" finished Bridget. "Shakespeare."

"You know his work," said Darcy.

"Everyone does," she said. "I read English at university, so you know, it'd be sort of embarrassing if I didn't."

Darcy didn't speak, though given everything, he should not have been surprised. Women attending university was as novel to him as the silver vehicle they had driven in.

She seemed to have read his thoughts. "I expect the thought of a young lady's accomplishments including 'attending university' is rather shocking," she said with a laugh. "You'd be more shocked to know I regularly travel unaccompanied, and I work all day outside of the house!"

Darcy smiled, despite everything. He couldn't imagine Bridget being content with the life of a lady in his time. As he had only just begun to see for himself.

"There you are."

It was Mark, who had returned with beverages for them all. Drinks made with coffee and milk, which he found quite unusual, but delicious.

"What next, oh tour guide?" said Mark.

"Actually… I had an idea," she said. "The Eye."

"I'm not sure we'll be able to get on," Mark said. "The queues…"

"Let's try. Please!"

Darcy suspected that Mark would not say no. He would have a difficult time saying no, in his stead.

"All right."

Bridget insisted that they just cross London Bridge and walk along the south bank of the river, which Darcy had no objection to doing. The walk was refreshing after so much stagnation. He continued to be amazed not just by the change in the landscape, but also by the number and variety of people he saw as they walked. London had always been a centre of modernity and culture, but even he had never seen such diversity, as evidenced in the ethnicities and costumes of the people they passed by as they walked.

"Does this look familiar at all?" Bridget said to him, gesturing at their surroundings.

"Not particularly," he said.

"Borough Market," she said. "The top border of it, anyway. My flat is just over there."

He said nothing, just continued to be astounded that the area had residents that didn't maintain market stalls.

She pointed out other attractions, like the Clink, which had, like the Tower, also been turned into a museum. A little further on they saw the Globe Theatre, modelled after Shakespeare's own (or so she said) and obviously a reconstruction, but impressively done.

After a quick pub meal, they finished their walk along the river approaching what she had termed 'The Eye'—a very tall wheel with, he realised, small pods containing people, hanging off of the periphery as the wheel turned and turned.

"What a marvel," he said as he craned his neck up further and further, his voice little more than a whisper.

"We're going to go up!"

"We _may_ be going up," Mark corrected. "I'll see if we can get tickets." Mark then strode towards where the tickets were sold.

Darcy looked around himself, amused that the London Dungeon was also a museum. This trend made him wonder where prisoners were kept now, but did not think it a good time to ask. Humanity could not have changed so much as for there to be no need for prisons.

"I have to say," she said, "you're taking this all very well."

"There is not much else I can do," he said. He offered a smile. "I realise that the trajectory of history is change, so while this is all very much a shock to the system, I cannot, deep down, be all that surprised."

She smiled fetchingly, then glanced down, assuming a more thoughtful expression. "Whatever happens," she said, meeting his eye again, "I'll always be pleased and honoured to have met and known you."

He was very touched by the admission, saddened by the reminder that this was probably not a permanent condition. "In this we are agreed," he said, offering a smile in return. "So," he said, in an effort to change the subject, "who is the reigning monarch now? How are relations with the Continent?"

"Well, the queen is Queen Elizabeth II, and in fact, she recently surpassed Queen Victoria for longest reign," she said proudly with a matter-of-fact tone.

"Victoria. She must be after the Regency," he said, more to himself than anything.

"As for 'the Continent'…" she began. "Well, there's the European Union—"

Mark's voice interrupted this intriguing piece of information. "I managed to snag three passes for a half-hour from now. Come, let's queue."

As they walked closer to the Eye, Darcy asked, "So, tell me more about this European Union."

Mark burst out with a little laugh. "Bridget bringing you up to speed on politics?"

"I did ask," Darcy said.

Bridget shot Mark a smug look, one that shut Mark up quite efficiently. "Well, then," she said. "It's basically like… a gentlemen's club. You know? Everyone from the member nations gets together and talks things out instead of going to war. Much smarter, if you ask me."

"It does seem eminently more sensible to use diplomatic channels over militaristic ones," Darcy said thoughtfully. He had always suspected that most of England's politics were run out of the gentlemen's clubs, anyway, so why not use that as a model for the whole continent? He suspected that this was a greatly simplified explanation, but it did help. "It is good to know—though, to be honest, slightly puzzling—that eventually the French will be our allies."

They were allowed into their pod, and once the door closed behind them and the others that joined them, Darcy felt the sensation of moving. Not forward, as with the automobile, but forward then up. The sight through the all-encompassing windows bore this out. They were moving up, higher and higher, up and over the city; it brought to mind tales of the Montgolfier's hot-air balloon, affording a bird's-eye view of the French countryside.

"You look a bit green," said Mark quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Uneasy," said Bridget. "Maybe a bit queasy."

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps a little. But it is not an understatement to say that I have never seen anything like this."

He looked down over the city as they continued to rise. It was like watching a map coalescing and coming into being. The Thames snaking through the landscape. The densely packed buildings. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a boxy cluster of buildings nestled against the river, with a very large clock tower rising up next to the street.

"Are you joking?" said Bridget. At his look, she explained, "That's Parliament. Big Ben."

"Pardon? Big whom?"

"That's the nickname for the bell tower," supplied Mark. "Or, more specifically, the bell itself. The tower's actually called Elizabeth Tower."

"After your monarch."

"Yes, actually, it is."

He looked out over the landscape again. "Stunning. Absolutely stunning." His eye was caught by a spot of yellow. "And what is that?"

Mark squinted, leaning forward. He looked as confused and traumatised as Darcy felt. "It appears to be… large and yellow."

"It is a rubber duck," said Bridget. "Isn't it cute?"

"Why is there a giant toy duck in the Thames?" asked Darcy.

"It is not for us to ask why," Bridget said with a grin. "Just enjoy the whimsy."

Little more was spoken for the duration of the turnaround the wheel, and before he knew it, they were stepping out onto the pavement again. Darcy felt overwhelmed, still. It was all so much to process. Instead of walking back to the vehicle, they instead hired a cab (aside from the lack of horses, some things hadn't changed) to take them back to where they had parked it earlier. It was just as well. He was exhausted, body and soul.

…

Poor Darcy, thought Bridget. The man had been holding up so well, too, but now she wondered if taking him out into modern-day London hadn't been a mistake. He said very little on the minicab ride to the car, then in the car back to Mark's home. It was a working day tomorrow, though. She wondered if he wanted her to stay over again. Not that she minded. She knew he felt a little odd staying there alone with Darcy. More importantly, each night she stayed there convinced her more that she could stand to live there once they'd married.

It was dinnertime again; it was late enough in the day that she was very confident she could talk Mark into a pizza. The thought of Darcy partaking made her a little giggly.

"What's so funny?" Mark asked as he turned the key into the door, then disarmed the alarm.

"Nothing," she said. "Just thinking we should get a pizza, that's all."

Mark looked thoughtful; Darcy, confused.

Mark said, "Yes, I think that's a splendid idea. Lunch was long ago and there's hardly time for a roast."

"What's pizza?"

"Something you will love, I think," said Bridget, "from the fine people who brought you spaghetti."

He cocked his brow, which made her giggle even more.

Mark pulled out his mobile to order it; Bridget watched Darcy watching with some interest. "What's he doing?" Darcy asked.

"What do you think he's doing?" she asked.

"He is talking into a piece of black slate," said Darcy, "but experience tells me that this is not actually what this is."

She reached in for her own mobile to show him, unlocking it, paging through screens of apps. She pulled up a game and demonstrated it. "It also allows me to do what he's doing," she said. "Contacting a restaurant to order food for delivery."

Darcy brought his hand to his head. "I know this is English you speak," he said, "but what you say makes little sense to me."

"It allows for instant communication," she said. "Not just near, but far. All over the world. Something we take for granted, I think."

"It'll be here in about forty minutes," said Mark, pocketing his mobile. "Ah. Yes," he added, seeing what she was doing. "The wonders of the mobile phone."

"It has all given me a bit of a headache, if I am to be honest," Darcy said.

"Oh, let me get you a tablet for that," she said. "It'll help with the pain."

"Like headache powder," said Darcy.

"Yes, I guess so."

She went to fetch him a Paracetamol and a glass of water, and she returned to find him seated on the sofa. She gave him the water glass then held her closed hand out. To be on the safe side, she said, "Don't chew this. Just swallow it with a big drink of water."

"Thank you," he said.

She dropped the tablet into his palm. He looked at it with some curiosity, then put it into his mouth, chasing it with a draw off of the water glass. The pill must have caught up in his throat a bit, because his face distorted a little and he took another long swallow.

"Does it just… sit there?" Darcy asked, indicating his midsection.

She couldn't help smiling. "It's probably already moved along," she said. "The sensation hasn't yet passed."

"Very odd," he said, keeping his hand on his chest.

After pouring her a glass of white wine, Mark got himself a bottle of bitter, and offered one to Darcy too. To her surprise, Darcy accepted, and in fact seemed to enjoy the beverage. She hoped he wouldn't drink it too quickly and get himself plastered on an empty stomach, but he seemed to be taking it slow.

The doorbell rang, indicating that the pizza had arrived. When Mark brought it down and opened the box, Bridget watched Darcy's reaction. She couldn't be sure what Darcy made of it—he certainly handled the slice he was offered with care—though the fact that he took another slice after finishing the first was very promising.

"This is… very intriguing," he said, before actually biting into the second slice. "Seems a sort of bread… with tomato? Cheese? And small circles of meat?"

Bridget laughed. "Yes, more or less," she said. "'Small circles of meat'? Do you often eat things that you can't identify?"

"I have not been disappointed so far in what you have provided me," he said, "and it smells very good."

"Do you feel better?" Bridget asked. "Your headache, I mean."

"The pain has subsided, thank you," Darcy said. "And that sensation has in fact passed."

"Another bottle?" Mark offered.

"Thank you, but no," Darcy said. "One bottle is quite enough."

As a matter of fact, shortly after he finished the second slice of pizza, Darcy got to his feet. "I hope you will forgive me, but I think I must retire," Darcy said. "The beer has made me feel a little light-headed after an already dizzying day."

"I totally understand," Bridget said.

Before he retreated, he turned once more to face his hosts. "Let me thank you again," he said, "for your continued hospitality. I have truly appreciated the kindness you have shown to me during this very confusing time."

Bridget got to her feet. "It was no less than you did for me," she said, smiling.

Darcy looked a little unsure, and he shifted from one foot to another. "Miss Jones. Bridget. May I have a word with you alone?"

Bridget's brows rose. "Alone?" she asked, casting a glance to Mark, who looked equally confused.

"My honour as a gentleman," he said. "Just a word."

"I'll… walk with you upstairs."

They were halfway up the staircase when she heard Darcy clear his throat from behind her. He didn't speak until he was standing before her outside of his bedroom door. "I know that this is Mark's home, and I owe more to him for hospitality, but I wanted to thank you for your continued kindness to me despite everything," he said.

"Despite everything?"

She saw the heat creep up around his collar. So very like Mark. "Despite knowing that my feelings for you are unchanged."

"Oh," she said. Then she smiled, deeply touched and hugely sympathetic. The poor man was pissed—maybe their modern beer had more alcohol than he was used to?—and unable to keep his mouth shut. She knew how that went all too well.

She threw her arms around him, intending to give him a little reassuring hug, but somehow, perhaps because of the comfortable familiarity of him, how like Mark he was, she found herself giving him a kiss. On the mouth.

This simple action seemed to have an unintended consequence. He responded to the kiss by taking her hard on the mouth, wrapping his arms around her, pushing the bedroom door open and pulling her inside with him. _So much for his honour as a gentleman_ , she thought, though had to admit the kiss was quite amazing, and found herself responding quite favourably, though she would never, ever in a million years let it go beyond that—

And then she was there. All alone.

She was stunned. It had happened again. Was kissing Mr Darcy cursed, or something?

She returned to where Mark was, heard him say, "See our guest off to his quar—" He broke off; he must have seen her expression. "Bridget, what's wrong?"

"He disappeared."

Mark waited for more.

"He thanked me for everything," she said. "I gave him a little hug. And then he was gone."

"Just… gone?" Mark asked. "Did he… vaporise, twinkle out of existence like on those Star Trek shows?"

"I don't know," she said.

"How do you not know? You were _right there_."

"I didn't see it."

"Did you… turn away at just the wrong moment? What timing."

"What's with the interrogation?" she asked, furrowing her brows. "I didn't see it."

He stood, walking very near to her. "Bridget," he said gently, taking her hand. "You're hiding something from me, and you don't have to."

"I gave him a little kiss goodnight, all right?" she burst out. "I closed my eyes and when I opened them he was gone."

"A little kiss."

"Mm-hmm." She gnawed a little on her lower lip, then stopped. But he'd seen her nervous tic.

"More than a little kiss."

"I'm sorry, Mark, it just happened," she said, "and then he was gone."

"If he were still here," Mark said tersely, "I'd knock him out."

"I didn't get a chance to push him away," she said. "Please don't be angry with me."

Mark pressed his finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes, and was quiet for far too long.

…

With a loud gasp, Darcy opened his eyes and sat up in bed.

In his own bed. In his own time.

It took him far too long to recognise the shapes of his own furniture, the posters of his bed, the drapes blocking the dawning sun. But he knew it was his own bedroom.

He cursed silently under his breath. He swore he could still taste the pizza in his mouth—and the wine from her lips. He ran his hand down over his face, then got up, drew on and tied his dressing gown, went to the window and drew aside the drapes.

Morning mist covered the land in the pale dawn, scattering the golden sunlight. Stillness and silence, absolute silence, compared to the city sounds to which he had become accustomed over the few days in London…

His door opened, and there stood his valet, Cooper, who looked surprised that he was vertical. "Sir, you are already out of bed," he said.

"As you see," said Darcy.

"You are feeling much improved after last night, I assume?"

Last night, last night…. He realised that before his… whatever had happened, he had retired early due to fatigue and a pain behind his eyes. His hand came up to feel his face; had his sideburns remained unchanged, or was he misremembering how he had shaved? Had his experience really happened over the course of a single night? Had it even been real?

"I am, thank you."

"Very good," said Cooper. "Bingley was expressing interest at breakfast in discussing some matter with you today." Darcy suddenly remembered; Bingley and his sisters had taken residence since the ball, since Bridget had arrived (and then disappeared) a month ago. "I was prepared to let him know if you were still unwell, but you can let him know yourself if you wish to see him."

"I shall pen him a note in reply," said Darcy. "I would very much like to speak to him. I would prefer to have the morning meal in my chamber, if you would be so kind to bring it up for me."

Cooper gave him a querulous look, but said, "Certainly, sir." After a long pause, he asked in a disapproving tone, "What _are_ you wearing, sir?"

Darcy realised he was still wearing Mark's trousers and shirt. He also realised he had no obligation to answer. "You are dismissed, Cooper."

With this, the valet quit the room.

After taking off what he was wearing to don his dressing gown—he would have to find somewhere to hide them lest they be discovered now or in the future—Darcy went over to his writing desk, and sat and penned a quick note for Bingley to give to Cooper when his breakfast was brought up. He then returned to the window to look out onto the dawning day. At Cooper's return, at the presenting of his breakfast to him, he smiled politely, and thanked the man curtly for it.

"Something wrong, sir?" asked Cooper.

"No, nothing at all," said Darcy. It was his usual breakfast, one he had eaten countless times before, of honey cake and strong tea. He found himself disappointed, however, to not find coffee on his breakfast tray.

He then handed the sealed missive for Bingley over to Cooper. "When I am finished you can return to help me dress in anticipation of Bingley's arrival," he said.

"Yes, sir," he said. "If there's nothing more…"

"Nothing more, thank you," he said. Cooper left again.

Because the valet possessed impeccable timing, he returned just as Darcy finished up. With nary a word he set aside the breakfast tray and waited for Darcy to get to his feet, then proceeded to prepare the man for his day: a quick bath, a shave, and then helping him don his clothing; the layers upon layers felt utterly absurd. In fact, the whole process had taken so long that Bingley was pacing the hall when Cooper left to get him.

"Darcy, my friend, I am glad to hear you are feeling improved. Glad indeed!" Cheery and red-faced, Bingley was a sight for sore eyes as he came into the room. He had, as Darcy had requested, come without his sisters.

"I too am glad," he said. "So what is the matter about which you wanted to speak to me?"

"I would very much like your opinion," said Bingley. "I am proposing to lease a property in Hertfordshire."

"Hertfordshire?" Darcy asked, unable to contain his surprise. "For what purpose?"

"After spending so much agreeable time in the country with you," said Bingley, "I would very much like to find a lovely place in the country in which to settle."

"Why have you chosen Hertfordshire, in particular?" Darcy asked; it was so far away from Derbyshire.

"If I am to be honest," he said quietly, "as much as I love them, as they are my family, I would prefer to be somewhere that my sisters do not wish to be."

Bingley's sisters definitely preferred to be in town, where they could mingle with the society there. "Is there other news that you wish to share? Settle there with whom?"

Bingley smiled. "I have no intended wife, as yet, and so I may need to engage Caroline to run the house with me until I do."

 _That would certainly get her out of my hair_ , thought Darcy. He smiled. "I admit I am intrigued," he said. "When were you intending on leaving?"

"Before Michaelmas, if I can help it," said Bingley; he was visibly excited at the prospect. "I have already made enquiries into the area with estate agents. Darcy, please say that you will come with me to see what's available. Your opinion would mean the world to me."

Darcy smiled. He would miss his sister, but perhaps it was just the thing he needed to take his mind off of everything that had happened. "Yes, Bingley," Darcy said. "I believe that shall join you."

Bingley turned even pinker with joy—Darcy would not have thought it possible—and clapped his hands. "Splendid!"

…

The silence. The unbearable silence.

It had become so unbearable that Bridget had retreated to the toilet, shut herself in, and now she found it impossible to leave it, unable to face being chucked.

Why had she told him? Why?

Because she could not lie to him. Lying to him would have been disastrous, because he would have found out and then chucked her.

Either way, though, she was going to get chucked.

Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears, and she sank down to sit on the closed commode. She reached over for a handful of loo roll and pressed it into her face to dry her tears, then blow her nose, as she sobbed quietly.

She didn't want to lose him, but didn't see a way this ended without him wanting his ring back.

A hand on her shoulder startled her to sit upright.

"Bridget."

It was Mark, who had crept in unheard, and was crouching before her.

"You can't stay in here forever."

"Why not? While I'm in here, I'm in a perpetual state of 'still engaged'."

Mark smiled. "I'm not going to chuck you."

"You're not?"

"Of course not," he said, bring his hand over to cup her face. "It was just something that happened."

She couldn't believe she was hearing this. "You were so quiet, though. I thought you were furious."

"Make no mistake, I was," he said. "But I've had time to think about it, and you told the truth, after all. Cooler heads have prevailed."

She exhaled in total relief, then leaned forward to embrace him, and told him again how sorry she was.

Getting to his feet, he drew her to stand too, then embraced her properly. He murmured, "No doubt had I kissed some other woman you would be equally forgiving, yes?"

"Of course not," Bridget teased, then kissed him. "I don't deserve you."

"I know," he teased back. "Now that we're truly alone," he went on in a totally deadpan, calm tone, "I think I'd like to take you to bed for a little—no, a lot—of uninhibited post-row make-up sex."

"Another brilliant idea," she said, laughing in relief. "Wait." She pulled back to meet his eye. "What do you mean, 'truly alone'?"

He looked as stoic as ever as he said, "Sound travels."

Oh, God.

…

"Mark?"

He was already drifting off in a wave of bliss. "Hm?"

"Tell me," she said; his sense of foreboding rose to the occasion. "Everything worked out in the end, but what did you really think after I told you what happened?"

"Jealous," he said without hesitation, "and foolish for feeling that way. I mean, how rational is it to feel jealous of one's however-many-great-grandfather kissing one's own fiancée? Not very."

She tightened her embrace as they lay curled up with one another. "It won't happen again," she said, pecking him on the shoulder.

"It had better not," he said with a laugh. "I mean, one never knows when this bizarre vortex will strike again."

"Let's hope never," she said. "And I mean it. Mr Darcy, the fictionalised and not-so-fictional, can't honestly hold a candle."

"Hmm," he said throatily, then found her lips again with his own, and kissed her deeply.

…

As he wandered through a labyrinth of hallways, Mark realised he was not at home. He recognised the walls as being where they had stayed for a minibreak, Pemberley, where Bridget had had her first… well, 'encounter' was the best word for it… with Regency Darcy.

He looked down at himself. He was wearing… breeches? A loose shirt?

What was going on?

He found the open door that he knew was his destination. He went into the room and found it occupied: a blondish man, two finely turned-out ladies (this he knew by the presence of copious tall feathers on her hat), and—

"Darcy."

Mark felt a surge of anger unlike one he had ever felt, especially when the man seen unperturbed at Mark's unexpected appearance.

"You kissed my fiancée," Mark said, then strode forward, and in a flash, balled his hand into a fist and swung a punch at Darcy.

With a quick intake of breath, he opened his eyes, and found himself back in his own bed, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.

He started to laugh a little as the adrenaline washed out of him. Only a dream. At least, he hoped it was only a dream.

Bridget's voice, scratchy and sleepy, asked, "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, pulling her back into his arms. "Acting out on my feelings, apparently."


	5. Epilogue

**Mr Darcy Returns**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 18,600 in four chapters and an epilogue

Rating: M / R (just to be on the safe side)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

I meant to post this right away, but things got busy. Apologies, especially considering how short the epilogue is. Hope you like it!

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Bingley could be so predictable. All Darcy had had to say, when asked which of the houses he liked best, was to ask Bingley which was his own preference, and then agree with that one. It did happen to be the nicest house they had looked at, but he wanted to urge his friend to make his own decisions.

Before autumn had fully kicked in, Bingley and his sisters—for his married sister Louisa and her layabout husband had also chosen to join them—were fully settled in at Netherfield, and were preparing to make their first appearance in the assembly halls in the nearby village of Meryton.

"My, my, Darcy, you are looking very sharp, indeed."

This, from Bingley's unmarried (and unm arriageable, in his opinion) sister, Caroline, who took great pleasure in taking more liberties than to which she was entitled. She looked lovely—or at least would look lovely to someone who didn't know her—though he thought the spray of feathers erupting from her hat was a little over the top.

"Thank you," he said tersely. "Where are your brother and sister?"

"They are on their way." She reached up as if to brush lint from his jacket. As if his valet would have left lint behind. "You shall undoubtedly be the handsomest man there," she said, turning her gaze up to him in a laughably coquettish manner, "and I shall be proud to be amongst your party and in your inner circle."

Darcy brusquely broke away from her and called out for Bingley again.

The carriage ride was close and warm, and exceedingly uncomfortable, over roads that had been rutted with constant travel after a rainstorm, then had dried; it had put Darcy in a very sour mood upon arrival at the assembly hall. He removed his hat as they entered, and his eyes swept the floor.

He did not know what he was looking for, exactly, though he felt there was something—or someone—there to find. He had not read the book that he had seen while in the London of the future, but he had seen enough to know that something might happen here. He had seen the phrase 'a pair of fine eyes'. He wanted to be ready for them.

His attention was caught by, of all things, chatter by Caroline. "I hear told that the sisters are reputed to be local beauties," she said. "Five of them. Can you imagine? _Five sisters_? Not a son to be found for their poor father…"

"Who are these sisters," Darcy said, rather than asked.

"I am not about to start pointing rudely," said Caroline with a sniff. "But I am told that the second eldest of the girls is right over there, beside the punch bowl." There were several ladies in the area. "Not only is she unfashionably coiffured, but she is wearing a pale blue dress in a style that is woefully out of date." She snorted with a laugh derisively. "I would not be caught in a _rainstorm_ in that thing."

Caroline might have been speaking with a disdainful tone, but Darcy realised that something about the lady made Caroline immediately and thoroughly very jealous.

The lady turned, almost as if sensing their eyes upon her, and met Darcy's gaze. He felt momentarily stunned. The lady was indeed attractive, but she bore herself with a confidence that would have terrified most gentlemen… and the small smirk told him she might have a fire in her spirit similar to a lady he'd left behind in the future.

And she had exceedingly fine eyes.

"I think it would behove us," said Darcy, "to request an introduction. We should, after all, get to know your neighbours."

 _The end._


End file.
